


Under Ink, Over Ice

by maggief



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prison, Art, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Big Bang Challenge, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Embedded Images, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Russian Mafia, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 12:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16516736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggief/pseuds/maggief
Summary: Orphaned at the collapse of the Soviet Union, American-born but Soviet-raised Bucky Barnes is left to care for his younger sister alone. Left in an increasingly violent and unforgiving country, Bucky turns to a life of crime in order to protect himself and his sister.Years later, as Bucky leads increasingly daring drug-selling missions into America he meets Steve Rogers, all-American boy and impossible to resist.Neither Steve nor Bucky are what they claim to be. Can they figure each other out before it's too late?





	1. Volgograd, 1991

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nejinee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/gifts).



> The fic would not be here without my wonderful artist [Nejinee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee), who was a constant cheerleader, and endlessly understanding when I thought I might give up. Seeing your incredible art was the push I needed to get finished, so make sure you check [Nejinee](http://nejineeee.tumblr.com/) out!
> 
> Thanks also to [Sable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecroixss/pseuds/lecroixss) for a super beta job at incredibly short notice - all remaining errors are most definitely my own. 
> 
> And finally, thanks to the awesome Mods of the [Captain America Big Bang 2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/cabigbang2018), you guys rock. 
> 
> \----------
> 
> This fic has attempted rape, and some descriptions of violence, but nothing excessive. The Russian crime 'family' in this is a fledgling business (at least at the start), and should not be equated directly with the well-established Bratva.

 

_ Prologue _

It is said that during the winter months the Bering Strait between Alaska and Chukotka freezes over. At the height of the Cold War, this ice border was patrolled by a specially selected force of covert operatives. These US Special Forces men would patrol the ice in the coldest and harshest months of the year, tasked with making sure the Soviets couldn’t use the ice bridge to infiltrate the United States and bring the war to American soil.

Twenty years later, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and despite fears of global warming, this ice bridge is active once again. It now forms part of a vital drug-smuggling route between the criminal gangs of Russia and the booming market of American addicts. 

For one man, it could be the bridge to freedom or his final downfall. This is his story.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 1: Volgograd, 1991

 

"Вернись сюда, вор!" 

Get back here, thief!

James Buchanan Barnes, 13 years old, doesn’t stop running. He doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t let go of the bread clutched tightly in his small hand. 

He runs like the hounds of hell are chasing him instead of one doughy, balding baker, dressed only in a yellowing vest top despite the October chill in the air.

Bucky, as his family had called him, had been living on the streets along with his younger sister since August that year. He had turned to petty thieving in order to keep himself and his sister — Rebecca, nine — from starving, and the locals were not impressed with thieving children, to put it mildly. 

The Soviet Union had one of the lowest records of crime and low prison populations. This first was due to the large police force and a low prevalence of drug use; the second, well—Gulag labour camps weren’t technically prisons.

Bucky’s father had been sent to one of these in August, only a few months after Bucky’s mother died of pneumonia. Born in Russia to a Russian father and an American mother, Georgy Barndyk had grown up in Volgograd before moving to the States at sixteen when his parents divorced. There, George Barnes had flourished, attending college to study politics and graduating summa cum laude with the beautiful Winnifred, who was soon to become his wife, smiling from the graduation crowd. 

Lured back by the American diplomatic service, with fluent Russian under his belt and local knowledge of both the country and customs, George Barnes’ dual-citizenship and Americanised name had served him well so far during his career, right up until the election of George H.W. Bush in early 1989. Things had still been fine, and if anything, Soviet-American relations had been improving. However, George Barnes had ingratiated himself with Gorbachev a little too successfully and, upon his failed coup of August 1991, George Barnes — Georgy Barndyk — was arrested and sent to a labour camp.

Bucky and Becca have been on their own ever since. Despite having American citizenship, the young Barnes children are far too scared of the political turmoil and the increasingly violent streets to approach any police that they see. Police had taken their father away; a policeman had struck Bucky straight across the face when he’d attempted to question why George was being arrested. Bucky doesn’t trust the police.

He and Becca live in a disused warehouse along with several other orphaned or abandoned children. Bucky is glad for his sister, knowing that she will stay and watch their stuff while he goes out and tries to get food and money for them. Although there is a lot of thieving between the kids in the warehouse, it never escalates into violence. Anything left unattended is fair game, but they respect each other and live together in relative harmony. Bucky is aware that they’ve had it easy so far. Summer had been warm, even by regular standards, but winter is approaching fast and Bucky and his sister only have one small blanket between them. 

This means that as the older brother, he has to step up and make sure his sister neither freezes nor starves to death. She is the only family he has left now and she is his responsibility. Bucky takes his job very seriously. In Volgograd, though, it means joining a gang. Even at the tender age of thirteen, Bucky has already heard enough horror stories about gangs to last him a lifetime. He knows that once you’re in a gang there is no way out; knows that he’ll be trapped for life.

If there is one thing that Bucky Barnes doesn’t want, it’s being trapped in this city for the rest of his life.

He wants to go back to America — to New York, to Boston, to California. To Washington D.C. where he’d been born when his dad had still been stationed in the States. He wants to visit all the places his mother told him about—Michigan, where she grew up, and the university there where his parents met. 

Bucky knows if he gets trapped within a gang here in Volgograd, then he’ll die here in Volgograd, and that’s a fact.

So, he steals bread, cheese where he can get it, mouldy apples and crumbling biscuits. He forages through bins, steals only when necessary. He pickpockets, but he has an excellent memory for faces and tries never to pickpocket the same person twice. Tourists are the best, but tourists are thin on the ground now, especially the rich ones. 

He steals books sometimes, too. Picks up discarded newspapers whenever he can, tries to find whatever material he can in both Russian and English. They’d spoken both at home; Russian with George and English with Winnifred, and Bucky is determined that neither he nor Becca will lose that fluency. If they are going to escape and make it in the United States, they need to be able to speak the language. As long as they speak English they’ll be able to blend in, but if they turn up looking — and sounding — like dirty Soviet street urchins, Bucky is sure the USA will slam their gates shut without a second glance.

It goes well, at first, and Bucky starts to get too confident, too cocky. He gives Becca (and himself) what rudimentary schooling he can manage in the day-time, goes out foraging and stealing in the evenings, and sleeps curled in next to Becca at night, huddled together to keep warm. A middle-aged woman with two small children and a yappy dog leaves her car unlocked as she dashes back inside just as Bucky is walking past one morning, not even planning on stealing anything. But there, on the back shelf, is a soft-looking fleece blanket, in addition to the one draped over the children’s laps in the back seat. Bucky doesn’t even feel a single twinge of guilt as he swipes the blanket and high-tails it out of there. Becca and him, they need it more.

He manages to steal enough food to get by, and he’s taught Becca long division by the time December rolls around. That’s when the snow storms really start, though. Bucky is sure that they’re worse this year than he’s ever seen before. But maybe that’s because he’s not wrapped up warm at home with his parents, next to a roaring fire and with thick woollen socks on his feet. He had managed to steal the socks for them, at least, and several fires rage in oil drums, but it’s not the same and Bucky misses his parents fiercely, more and more with each passing day.

Maybe that’s why he gets sloppy. There’s a guy sitting on a bench in the square one day. He looks nondescript enough, but Bucky clocks him the moment he walks into the open, and he also notices that his eyes barely ever leave Bucky.

He can feel the man’s attention on him like a sick sort of fever. Is he the police?

Bucky isn't a hundred percent sure, but he's fairly positive the police have better things to do than sit around looking out for street orphans. Why would they care?

He thinks that maybe it’s a gang member, but he doesn’t know what one of those is meant to look like. He knows they have tattoos, and the rumours are they all do drugs and carry wicked looking knives for sticking people with. People like sticky-fingered teenagers. 

Bucky isn’t stupid enough to try to steal from that guy, but he can’t see the harm in carrying along as usual. So what if this guy is watching him; what he’s gonna do about it?

So Bucky picks his mark — a well-to-do elderly couple walking arm and arm while the man smokes. She’s wearing a fur coat, and Bucky wishes he could steal that and bring it back to Becca to add to their blankets. It looks so warm that an involuntary shiver runs up Bucky’s back. God, he hates being cold. 

The man’s wallet is in his front left pocket—not the easiest one, but Bucky is already tall for his age and the man is stooped with old age. He’ll manage it. Luck strikes him, though, and as he’s walking past, as the man lets go of his wife to throw his cigarette on the floor, she stumbles. Bucky is still a few feet away and he re-angles himself to catch her as she trips, and at the same time brushes up against the man, small hand slipping into that front left pocket. 

The wallet is stashed under the waistline of Bucky’s jeans quick as a flash, and the man is only just reaching over to help his wife. 

She’s caught her feet with Bucky’s help, and Bucky’s glad. That would have been a mistake, too much of a scene, and he should have abandoned his mark. But it seems fine; he’s gotten away with it.

“Спасибо, большое спасибо.” _Thank you, thank you very much_.

He extricates himself from the man's effusive handshake and walks quickly — but doesn’t rush — to the edge of the square. He's so busy keeping watch on the elderly couple out the corner of his eye, that he doesn't realise the man on the bench has moved until a firm hand grasps his elbow. 

"Nice work there, boy"

Bucky tries to wrench his arm from the man's grasp, but he's too strong. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Bucky returns, coming across exactly like the truculent teenager he is.

“Don't you? Or is that man walking away a few roubles lighter?”

Bucky grimaces but doesn’t deny it. “So what,” he says with a shrug, not even a question. 

“I could use someone with fingers like you,” the man says with a lecherous grin.

For a second Bucky's mind blanches in horror. Does he mean...?

The man continues before Bucky has even fully processed the insinuation behind that grin; isn’t sure he _wants_ to explore them. “I’ll give you somewhere to sleep. Food, too. And you give fifty percent of what you steal to me.”

Bucky eyes the man warily. He doesn’t want to give away his spoils, no thank you. He steals just enough for him and Becca to get by. More targets mean more interest, means someone might notice him. It seems like somebody already has, though. 

“Winter’s drawing in. Heard it's gonna be a cold one.” 

Bucky stares at the man, still not speaking. They’re always cold in Russia, it makes no difference.  

“Just you, is it?” the man continues, like he couldn’t care less that Bucky hasn’t replied. “No family?” 

Something in Bucky's face must give him away because the man starts to smile. 

“What is it? Brother? Sister?”

Bucky’s eye twitches involuntarily, and he knows he’s stuck. 

“Sister.” The man's tone rises with his eyebrow. “Safe? She okay sleeping on the streets?”

"We're not on the streets!" Bucky almost shouts as he wrenches his arm back finally. He knows it’s not true though, knows they’re one bad altercation, one bad week away from being all alone on the cold, Volgograd streets. 

"A warm place to sleep. A bed. For you _and_ your sister. Guaranteed food. All yours for fifty percent"

Bucky might be young but he's not stupid. If he takes this man's offer, he's in. Permanently. But... A warm place to sleep without having to worry, food, and safety. Or the best approximation of safety they're going to get... He's stealing anyway. This guy clearly likes the spoils of crime without the danger of getting caught; surely his patronage will come with some sort of protection as well. 

“Okay.” He regrets the words almost before they've left his mouth, but what other choice does he have?

 

* * *

 

The man's name turns out to be Markovich, and he himself is the head of the most notorious Volgradi gang. The fact that it was Markovich himself out on the streets that day speaks volumes about how he likes to run his business. Bucky learns over the next few months that Markovich likes to keep a close eye on his empire, likes to know who is doing what, where, and when. He likes to check in even with the youngest thieves right at the bottom of his ladder— treats them well, even knows them all by name or nickname. Markovich knows that you catch more flies with honey, after all. And a gang that loves you is less likely to betray you. 

Bucky also learns not to mistake that kindness for weakness or cowardice. That winter, a boy a few years older than Bucky himself is caught skimming off the proceeds he’s meant to give to Markovich, keeping a bigger cut for himself. His motives are good— he’s trying to save money to get married to his girl. Markovich only cuts off his hand, the traditional punishment for thieves. 

A woman much higher up in the organisation isn't so lucky. She is one of the people working most closely with Markovich himself, heading up his drug-running operations. Valentina Enkov had been taking a small portion of the smack each month, cutting the remaining drugs with flour to bulk it back out, and running her own operation on the side. She'd thought Markovich a weak and soft man, too interested in keeping everyone happy to be an effective businessman. 

Markovich sends her head to her mother, surrounded by fresh flowers. Her body is dumped in an alleyway like nothing more than a piece of trash, left for everyone to see, and to know what happens to people who cross Vasily Markovich. 

Being in Markovich's gang really isn't as bad as Bucky had thought. With a fixed address and somewhere to sleep at night, Bucky is able to get Becca enrolled back into school. Now he walks her to the school building every morning before heading out to find his targets. Often he passes by other people he knows, other "associates" of Markovich and they give each other a subtle nod of recognition. 

With the safety and security of Markovich's protection over them, Bucky and Becca barely feel the tremor that reverberates through the Soviet Union in the winter of '91. The don’t really notice a difference at first, although now they live in the Russian Federation instead. 

Bucky notices eventually, though. As the months pass, as winter turns into spring again, and Bucky's fourteenth birthday passes, he notices. 

There are more streets he wants to avoid now, more people looking like they want to follow you at night hoping to catch you unaware, defenceless. There are more used needles lying in the street and people lying comatose next to them to match. Markovich also starts to take a closer interest in Bucky himself. Bucky finds himself no longer only stealing off any mark that he chooses; sometimes now he’ll be given a description, someone to target. Sometimes he delivers packages to and from Markovich. The most frequent of these are to a man Bucky learns is the chief of police, in frequent contact with one of Volgograd's most notorious criminals. If the police are in Markovich's pocket, then Bucky knows that there’s no safer place than under Markovich's protection. 

He also manages to keep most of it from Becca. They live in a sort of boarding house with an elderly woman in charge who cooks the most delicious borscht that Bucky has ever tasted, better even than the one their dad used to make. Thinking of his parents hurts Bucky and he tries not to do it too often, tries not to think about how George and Winnifred Barnes would view him now, if they could see what he is becoming. 

Because the thing is, the thing that he’s becoming is someone who is good at crime. Bucky is quick, and his hands are even quicker. What's more, he can charm his way out of any trouble— or into it, but most of the time he’s unobtrusive enough that no one even notices him if he doesn’t want them to. People trust him and are already starting to listen to him, even at fourteen. People are taking orders from him and it feels good. It feels good to be in charge of his own life, to know that he is taking care of his sister, and he likes it. 

Bucky should have known not to be so naive. If you run with wolves, eventually you'll get bitten by one. 

 

* * *

 

1992

 

Bucky is fifteen when it all goes to shit. Becca is eleven, and has lost that innocence she used to carry around like a blanket. She still doesn't really understand what happened to their home but she knows that she trusts Bucky. She also walks home from school alone now, Bucky often too busy running errands for Markovich to be there on time anymore although he still tries to walk her there in the mornings as often as he can.  

One day he makes it to the school gates a few minutes too late, only to find that Becca has already started walking home without him. He starts to jog lightly in the hope of catching her — he hadn't seen her that morning either, and he likes to catch up with her at least once a day to check if she needs anything. 

He catches sight of her in the distance once he turns the corner, but she's not alone. There's a guy walking next to her, body turned to face her as he keeps pace with her down the street. Bucky doesn't know the man at first, but he puts on a burst of speed to catch up, uncomfortable with what he can read from their body language. He's still over two hundred meters away when he finally recognises the guy. It's Artiom. He's in his mid-twenties and he sells heroin, mixes it himself as far as Bucky is aware. Artiom cuts his drugs with whatever he can find — flour, paracetamol, rat poison. 

Bucky's never spoken to Artiom, and Markovich doesn't deal with him. Last year, some of Artiom's heroin killed Markovich's daughter, Marina. The only reason Markovich hasn't killed the guy is because he is the son of a prominent local politician. A politician who holds a lot of sway over the local police force and judiciary. Even looking for revenge, Markovich knows a stupid move when he sees one. 

Everyone suspects that Markovich is just biding his time, building up his own power and his own influence until he is powerful enough to wipe Artiom from existence without any repercussions. But that day hasn’t arrived yet, and so here is Artiom, harassing his baby sister on her walk home from school. 

Bucky isn't sure Artiom is going to live to see that day, after all. 

As he watches, Artiom grabs Becca by the arms and pushes her up against the nearest building, forcing his mouth onto hers. As Bucky watches in horror, one of Artiom’s hands stars fumbling with his own trousers, tries to reach up under her skirt. 

Bucky's blood boils. 

She’s half his size, but fuck does his sister fight like a Barnes. Bucky breaks into a flat-out sprint for the last fifty feet, hand already clutching the shiv he carries with him everywhere now.

He can’t see anything except for that pervert's hands on Becca. 

Her cries for help are muffled where his lips are still pressed up against hers, and he is so intent upon his goal that he never even sees Bucky coming. 

Bucky lets the momentum of his run carry him straight into Artiom, driving his knife straight up into his back. 

Artiom jerks immediately, hands letting go of Becca as he pitches sideways. 

"Bucky!" There is no mistaking the relief in his sister's voice, and Bucky takes one quick look at her tear-stained face, ascertaining she’s ok, before shouting. 

"Go, get out of here! Run!"

She obeys him immediately, shooting off like a rocket in the direction of home. 

Artiom had fallen to the floor, Bucky’s knife still stuck in his back, in the short amount of time it had taken Bucky to check on his sister. Although Bucky’s knife is short, it is sharp, and as blood bubbles up out of Artiom’s mouth, Bucky realises the blade must have driven straight through into the man’s lungs.

He doesn’t care.

He reaches down to extract his knife from Artiom’s back, wipes the blood off on the other man’s shirt, and then he just… turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t notice the figure watching him from across the street.

His heart is racing in his chest like a fucking hummingbird but he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t think Artiom has it in him to chase after him, thinks that Artiom is probably going to die, right here on the side of the street. And Bucky doesn’t know what to think about that, doesn’t know how he feels about it.

He’s glad he saved his sister though.

He looks down at his hands and some of Artiom’s blood is staining his fingers, the knife, still. He wipes them hastily on his trousers and tries not to look guilty. It will be okay. It has to be.

He goes straight to find Becca when he gets home, and she looks like she’s waiting for him too.

“Is he… dead?”

Bucky doesn’t reply.

“Bucky…?”

Bucky shakes his head as if warding off a fly and sits down next to Becca on her small single bed, wrapping an arm around her. His sister feels impossibly small and fragile and he sends thanks to a god he doesn’t believe in that he got there in time to stop anything worse from happening.

He blows out a large breath before speaking.

“I think— I think so, Becs… I— Don’t, you mustn’t tell anyone, okay?” 

His tone gets more frantic as he speaks, but his grip around his sister doesn’t tighten and she doesn’t sound scared when she responds.

“I know. I won’t.” Her voice is quieter than a whisper as she continues, “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, Becs. We’ll be okay.”

It takes two days for his actions to catch up with him. The next day the rumour of Artiom’s demise is all over the streets, and as Bucky comes up the stairs towards Markovich’s office, he can hear him talking to one of his other men inside.

“Find me, find me the man who did this. I want to congratulate him, for Marina.”

Bucky’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t want to be congratulated, doesn’t want to be celebrated. He’s killed a man, not done Markovich a favour. But of course, in a world of corruption and violence, this sort of thing was only a favour — a trifling thing — after all.

 


	2. The East, 2005

_ 12 years later _

 

Eastern Russia is bleak. Bucky has no other word for it. In a country where the most enthusiastic response to ‘how are you’ starts and finishes with a single ‘good’, Bucky can’t blame himself for not being more elegant; knows he can’t expect anything better. 

The East reminds him of prison, the stark barrenness of Soviet punishment, even in the youth prison where he’d served his sentence. Three years only, in the end—six years sentenced, but paroled early on good behaviour instead of being transferred to a gen-pop prison once he turned eighteen. He’s been lucky, he knows. He is well aware that it could have been far, far worse. He’d been sentenced for aggravated assault, the murder charge only being applicable to intentional killing. Even though Bucky had driven a knife deep into Artiom’s lungs, it hadn’t been an intentional killing according to his lawyer, the judge, the jury. According to Markovich’s influence. It was a lighter sentence than he deserved, and Bucky knows it. 

For all that Bucky had been unaware of it at the time, several prying eyes had witnessed his killing of Artiom that fateful afternoon; had also seen the assault on his sister beforehand. That the victim was a universally-despised and well-known drug dealer had helped to increase sympathy towards Bucky’s cause, as well as his relatively young age. At fifteen he’d been lucky to be tried as a juvenile, knowing that many younger had been tried as adults. He has never been under any illusions that Markovich’s connections and influence had helped him. 

If he had, well, the visit he’d received from the man himself his first month in detention would have set the record straight. Bucky had done Markovich a great service in killing his daughter’s killer, Bucky’s age and motive safeguarding him in a way that Markovich couldn’t have orchestrated artificially. Bucky had done what Markovich had been incapable of, and it had cemented his role within Markovich’s organisation—had guaranteed him a role upon his release. At that moment he knew his servitude to Markovich was complete.

Bucky hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. He still doesn’t.

Because he’d been tried, sentenced, and served under a juvenile record, his file was sealed—a secret he carried around him both under his skin and painted on it. 

Russian prisons were notorious hotbeds for gang affiliation and glorification of crime. Prisoners wore their crimes and allegiance on their skin; collected tattoos like badges of honour. Although the practice was rife in adult prisons, the wardens tried their best to keep it out of the juvenile detention centres. They wanted the kids to have some shot at normal life after their release, still clinging to the vain hope that they weren’t already destined for a life of crime. 

Bucky never admitted to anyone inside why he was there. Rumours traveled but Bucky never confirmed nor denied them, admitting only to being a thief. And so he was given a thief’s traditional markings — the eight-pointed star indicating he was a master thief rather than the 4-pointed version of a lesser tradesman. Bucky hadn’t been convicted for thieving, had never been caught or prosecuted for those crimes. The star was set in red on his left bicep, only the size of the palm of his hand. He used to call Becca his little star — моя маленькая звездa —  and he’d submitted to the tattoo as a reminder of his sister more than anything. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s a perversion or an homage. He doesn’t like to think about it.

It had been the only symbol he could stomach; the only crime he could bear to admit to. Several of the other inmates knew him by reputation — there was more than one member of Markovich’s gang inside, and they knew what he’d done although he never spoke about it. Bucky had done Markovich a real service, the kind that stuck to you for life, and these members of Markovich’s gang respected him for it. It terrified Bucky and made him feel powerful, even while he was still stuck inside with them. 

There’d been a time when he’d hoped that he could get away with only having the star tattooed on him. He’d at least made it out of prison with only one other mark on his skin—a rose, an innocuous symbol for those who didn’t know. He’d had no other permanent scars depicting how tarnished his soul already was. Markovich, though, had different plans for him, knew that the more he marked Bucky, the more he would belong to him. Permanently. Irrevocably. 

 

 

 

The rose, running up the right side of his rib cage, he got the day he turned eighteen when he was still serving his sentence. It marks him as someone who crossed over from childhood to manhood inside, and he’d been no more able to turn it down that he had been the original star. It’s the same red ink, the same standard-issue pens issued to the guards that had been used for the star. Every time Bucky looks at it he thinks of what red roses are meant to symbolise. It’s generic enough that it could mean anything. Unless you know. 

Markovich’s gift upon Bucky’s release had been a tattoo given by Markovich’s own personal tattooist: The double skulls of a murderer, one on each side of his chest. He’d gone for red again, attached to the colour by now. The star and rose in prison had been remarkably well done considering the crudeness of the tools, but the skulls are a work of art. Even though Bucky hates them, he can appreciate the skill, the level of detail and craftsmanship. He’s not proud of them, but he knows they look good, knows he looks good whenever he’s shirtless. He keeps himself in shape, and not just because he sometimes acts as muscle for Markovich and his entourage.

When Bucky turned 21, Markovich gifted him another tattoo. Bucky chose the Madonna and Child. Another symbol of his crimes, the one given to those who were thieves from an early age, a child of prison. He’d been in a prison of his own making for nearly fifteen years by then, and he couldn’t think of anything more appropriate, especially since he knew that God forsook him years ago—left him alone the day George Barnes was killed. 

The first tattoo that Bucky gets solely of his own volition is the Statue of Liberty. He gets it to remind himself that he’s an American, that his mother was an American, and it’s where both he and his sister belong. He gets it to remind himself that he’s going to get out of here. That he has to. One way or another, Bucky refuses to serve Markovich until he’s old. He’s well aware that he might die trying, is fully cognisant of the fact that people who cross Markovich never live to tell the tale. He has to try, though, if not for him, then for Becca. Always for Becca.

Twenty-three years old and beautiful, Becca Barnes is the reason Bucky is still living, still fighting. Becca’s in Moscow, having moved there for college a few years after Bucky had been released. She had refused to go at first, refused to leave Bucky alone, but it had been one of the only legitimate reasons he’d been able to create to move her away from Markovich’s clutches. All of his money, everything he gets from Markovich’s favours and his business, goes towards Becca. She studies mathematics and is far more brilliant than Bucky could ever hope to be, but he at least allows himself the gratitude for those sparse days sharing the same mattress, when Becca’s schooling had been more important than anything else. It had been worth it. 

He knows that Becca will never leave Russia while he’s still here too, and he can never leave while Markovich lives.

A week after that tattoo, the symbol of his longing for freedom, his promise of hope, he enrolls in night school. He hopes to keep it a secret; hopes that he can have this thing for himself and keep it away from Markovich. He’s not the most powerful man in the city for nothing. In the time Bucky was in prison, and in the years since, Markovich’s reach has grown exponentially. Bucky knows that he, himself, has helped, both inadvertently with the death of Artiom, and since his release. The death of Artiom had been carefully cultivated by Markovich, spun as a deliberate and brazen hit on a man who should have been untouchable, had been protected by his name and status. It had helped Markovich solidify himself as a real player and had drawn those who had been prevaricating at the fringes closer to him. 

Bucky does his job well: does all the things that Markovich asks for him with skill and competence. He knows that his skills are the one thing keeping him alive and in favour, and he can’t do anything if he’s not in Markovich’s favour. Markovich, though, he treats Bucky like a son, likes him above all others and gives him more and more responsibility with each passing day. Bucky knows that Markovich is starting to view him as some sort of successor and he feels the noose tightening around his neck, suffocating him.

The night school helps. It’s three months of late classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays before Markovich mentions anything about it. Three months where Bucky is naive enough to think that anything can happen in this city without Markovich’s knowledge. 

“Yasha, a moment.”

Markovich catches Bucky at the tail-end of their weekly briefing. Bucky’s one of three men who report directly to Markovich now, one of three who runs their own team of subordinates and runners. Markovich runs his criminal organisation like he’s running a business. He has scheduled meetings and quarterly targets; accounts and accountability. He runs his operation more successfully than many a Fortune 500 company, and Bucky is now an inherent part of that. He’s in so deep he can’t see the surface anymore, but he knows that he has to keep swimming—has to try to keep moving or else he’ll never get out.

Bucky stills from where he’d been about to follow the others out.

“Da?” he asks, turning back around.

“Please, sit,” Markovich tells him in Russian, waving a hand towards one of the chairs in front of his large, leather-topped desk. Markovich can speak perfect English and does so in front of clients he’s trying to impress or confuse, but he rarely uses it with Bucky. Coupled with the diminutive form of his name, he sounds like nothing more than a magnanimous grandfather humouring his favourite grandson, about to indulge him. 

Bucky is on edge.

“I was very impressed with the deal you pulled with Ivanovich. Very pleased.” Ivanovich had been the judge presiding on a trial of two of Markovich’s henchman. Bucky had managed to get to Ivanovich, persuaded him to sentence both men to nothing more than community service despite them being caught with bloody hands and guilty consciences. 

Bucky’s never tortured anyone, has only ever threatened the promise of violence. But when he promises, it feels like he means it and it scares him. People look at him and they can see what he’s capable of, but Bucky so desperately doesn’t want to go down that path—not any more than he already has, but he doesn’t know how to escape. 

Ivanovich believed every word of out Bucky’s mouth when he told him that he would start by removing his fingernails one by one. After that, he’d remove the fingernails of his young daughter — Ana, eight — and then his wife. Whatever he did to Ivanovich, his daughter and wife would follow. 

Ivanovich made it as far as Bucky describing how he’d break his kneecaps with a hammer before he caved, before he promised that the two men on trial wouldn’t go to jail; wouldn’t serve any time.

Bucky wonders if the next words out of Markovich’s mouth will be asking him to do more than promise next time, and dear God how he doesn’t want to. He’s twenty-seven years old and he wants nothing more than to be five years old again, safely wrapped in the loving arms of his parents. He wants his life to mean something other than danger and death. 

“As you know, we’ve been expanding recently.”

Bucky knows this intimately. Markovich’s reach has spread out from Volgograd, eastward across the Continent. He’s not interested in moving north towards Moscow or St Petersburg. He has wisely discerned that although the market is larger there, so is the police presence, as are the other crime families who’d take insult to him encroaching on their territory. To the east is a wasteland, but a wasteland with cities to explore, with…

“And our excursion last week was a success,” Markovich continues. 

Bucky’s mind starts whirring furiously. He hadn’t heard anything about an excursion, hadn’t missed any men heading into a new city for recon, had seen neither hide nor hair of any evidence of an excursion. How could he have missed this?

“Excursion, sir?” He keeps his tone mild and unfailingly polite with Markovich. People have lost fingers for transgressions less than a little rudeness. 

“Yes. I’ve got some contacts in Vladivostok—my wife’s brother has been in charge of operations there since last year.”

This Bucky knows, and he doesn’t understand Markovich is telling him again; why it would warrant a noteworthy trip from the man himself. Sure, he knows he and his wife went there for Christmas, but so what?

Markovich steeples his fingers in front of him, gazing at Bucky over the tops of his hands as if he’s weighing up whether to keep speaking or not. Bucky makes a concerted effort to keep his expression bland and non-confrontational. He so desperately wants to know what Markovich is going to tell him. 

“We were out in Lavrentiya.”

It takes Bucky a moment to place the town, because what? Lavrentiya? It is quite literally the middle of nowhere, or the end of nowhere would be more accurate. Lavrentiya sits on the east coast of Russia, with only the sea and desolate wilderness for company.

It’s one of the bleakest places on earth in winter—minus 40 and zero hours of sunlight in December, and it starts snowing at the end of August. Bucky can’t fathom how a population of no more than fifteen hundred people could be a booming market for Markovich’s drug cartel. Why would he bother? It’s so far away from anywhere it’s practically Amer—

And then Bucky gets it.

Bucky is a smart guy. There’s nothing out in Lavrentiya. Nothing except for its coastline. Its coastline which lies only 80 miles, more or less, from Alaska. 

Global warming has been taking a real toll on the planet in the last few years, and Bucky keeps up with the news enough to read about the monsoons, the hurricanes, the summer snow in Britain after the warm air of the Gulf Stream has been destroyed. Bucky knows that global warming doesn’t just mean that the planet is getting warmer, it means it’s getting colder in places too. Knows that it’s fucking with all sorts of weather systems and symbioses that are completely out of sync.

One of the more curious aspects of global warming is the Alaskan-Russian ice bridge. It had first been observed three winters ago, where the sea between the far reaches of Russia and the Americas had frozen over. Two winters ago, explorers tried to cross it and had drowned. The ice was too young, too fresh to support their weight. Five men and women and over twenty dogs were lost that day, and the US government had forbidden any more attempts for another few years.

Arctic researchers had put the estimate for the ice to be secure at another five years at least— a cycle of melting and reforming that needed to grow year upon year before the ice would be safe enough to cross.

Surely Markovich can’t mean to cross?

Surely he doesn’t want Bucky to cross?

It’s September now, and the ice will already have started forming for the year, although it will be safest in February or so when it’s been cold long enough for the ice to form a thick, stable layer. But Bucky would much rather trust the scientists on this one…

All of this rushes through his head in no more than ten seconds, and when he pays attention to Markovich again, the man is still speaking.

“—ow what they’re talking about. The ice will be safe by January, week after Christmas for sure.” 

О Боже. _Oh god._

This is it, Bucky realises with startling clarity. This is either Bucky’s ticket out, or this is how he dies.

 

* * *

 

_15 months earlier_

 

Bucky exited the hall with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He felt… not free, but weightless almost, like he was in a plane just on the edge of space, on the cusp of that moment when your body starts to float. He could feel it, he was nearly there.

That feeling was hope. 

He’d just sat his last exam. His last exam for the degree that he’d been studying at night for the last four and a half years. Markovich knew about it, sure, but this was something that was all Bucky’s own. Something that wasn’t contaminated, that wasn’t infected by Markovich and his men and the things he asked of Bucky.

Markovich had scoffed at Bucky the day that he’d called him to his office, asked if it this was really his name on the student roster. Bucky hadn’t even been surprised. Of course, Markovich had his fingers in every single fucking pie in the city. Luck had been on Bucky’s side for once, though. Markovich had laughed at him -- what’s the point Yasha? I will give you whatever you need -- but he hadn’t tried to stop Bucky from studying. He hadn’t questioned it too hard and had just dismissed it as Bucky being Bucky. He’d indulged him, one of his favourites, to follow this whim if he wanted to.

Bucky, though--for Bucky, this was his way to a better future. In the history of humankind, never once has education disadvantaged someone. He’d been fortunate enough to gain his GED in prison and he knew that in order to open doors, in order to escape from Markovich’s grasp and from Russia, he needed a solid education behind him. He’d already stressed to Becca how important it was that she did the same and it was high time that he followed his own device. And he had. He’d just finished his final exam, and he was going to graduate.

He was so caught up in his own euphoria that he almost missed the sound of his own name. Someone was calling for him across the street, and he looked up to see Boris -- the professor for the exam he’s just sat -- standing in the shade of a vibrantly leafy tree.

Bucky lifted a hand in greeting as he wove his way through the traffic to stop next to Professor Kuznetsov. Bucky had several classes with the man over the years he’d been studying, and the older man had transitioned from ‘Professor’ to ‘please-call-me-Boris’, to something of a friend or a mentor. He was Bucky’s dissertation supervisor for his final year project, an extended essay that was a mess until Boris took it under his wing. Bucky ended up handing in a detailed treatise on the end of the Cold War and American-Russian relations at the time. It’s a period that Bucky lived through, young though he was, but the research made him feel more connected to his father; helped him to understand the upheaval and uncertainty that his parents must have gone through. In the end, and after his parents’ deaths, Bucky had mostly been concerned with keeping Becca safe and both of them alive. It gave him some closure, in a way, and helped him understand the country he now lived in.

It only helped to increase his desire to leave; to get out to America by any means possible.

Boris invited him to dinner at his house, in the east of the city. Boris’ wife died last year, and Bucky knew the old man was lonely and saw Bucky as something more than a student. He’d been round to Boris’ before, especially in the throes of his dissertation edits, too busy with work and study to find time to cook himself a proper meal. Boris normally offered a simple supper of borscht and bread, but delicious nonetheless.

Once they sat down at Boris’s kitchen table, steaming bowls in front of them, the evening took a turn that wasn’t usual.

“I wanted to talk to you about your work, Bucky.”

Boris was one of the only people in Russia who called him Bucky. He usually went by Barnes, or Yasha when Markovich was feeling fond. Bucky has always made him think of home, of family, of people who care for him and not _what_ he can do for them. 

Bucky froze, spoon halfway to his mouth at Boris’s words. He wasn’t stupid; he knew Boris was a smart man and had likely pieced together what Bucky did as they grew closer. He knew that Boris’s political knowledge came from work he did during the Cold War, operating under the cover of his academic life. 

“I’ve got a contact in the police force. They want to recruit you.”

“Recruit me?” The blood turned to ice in his veins. Who did he talk to? Did Markovich know?

“His name is Alexei Petrov. He saved my life once, and I returned the favour. I trust him with my life, and you can trust him, Bucky. You can trust me. He’s not in Markovich’s pocket.”

Bucky barely had time to process this information before there was a knock on the door. He jumped visibly, caught up in Boris’s spell and the illicit promise of working against Markovich: the light at the end of the tunnel. 

“That will be him.”

Bucky held his breath as Boris got up to open the door. He knew most of the men in Markovich’s pocket; knew the judges and police chiefs who couldn’t be trusted. He knew where they lived, knew their wives’ names and their children’s. He had delivered packages to their houses, met them in restaurants and back alleys. Bucky knew Markovich’s contacts, but he was not arrogant enough to think that he knew them all. What if this guy -- what if this ‘Alexei’ -- was one of Markovich’s? Even this conversation was enough to put him under suspicion; was enough to get him a bullet in the back of the head when he least expected it. 

As Boris opened the door he felt as though his heart was about to beat right out of his chest. He’d forgotten how to breathe, how to do anything except stare at the door and the … two people walking through it.

Alexei was a balding man of around 60 with small, dark eyes that looked straight at Bucky the moment he walked in. Behind him was a slender woman, probably around Bucky’s own age with dark red hair. What was important though, what sent the breath whooshing back into Bucky’s lungs is that he didn’t recognise either of them. Maybe Boris was right. Maybe they could be trusted.

Introductions are made — the woman’s name is Natalya and she works undercover for a well-known ‘fixer’ in the city, Ivan Vasiliev, although Bucky knows him only by reputation. More importantly, Alexei took her in when she was a young girl and the bond between them is stronger than blood. She’s already in deep, but Bucky can see the affection between Alexei and Natalya just in the short time he sees them interacting. If Boris trusts this man, then he trusts them both, too.

“It will be best if you and Natalya cultivate a relationship,” Alexei continues, laying out the practicalities of how their information network will work—how Bucky will be able to report to the police without being caught. “We will train you, of course, but mostly through Natasha”. Alexei uses the fond diminutive of Natalya, and Bucky can see her eyes go soft in response when her face has been a cold mask until that moment. “She’s one of our best operatives, although I may be biased there.”

Alexei smiles at Natalya, and she smiles back. Bucky thinks that maybe he might just be able to fake a relationship with this woman if he could ever get her to smile at him like that.

Fake being the real operative word here. Bucky has never been interested in women, although no one except Becca knows that. Although homosexuality was no longer classed as a mental illness, as it has been when Bucky was growing up, Russia was not a friendly country towards LGBT individuals. And working for Markovich, Bucky knows better—knows to keep his thoughts and his hands to himself. 

It’s lonely as fuck, but there’s no other way. Not if he wanted to remain safe— remain alive. He’d seen a man accused of homosexuality once, accused of taking advantage of the teenaged son of a powerful politician. Local justice had been served — Bucky remembers the taste of bile that lingered in his mouth after he saw the body. He remembers that taste whenever he thinks about picking someone up in a club, about taking someone home. 

Bucky and Natalya, though, that’s a good cover, And good for Bucky’s own safety in more ways than one. They’ll work together to gather evidence on Markovich and Vasiliev, working to bring down the hold that crime has on their city and weed out the corruption inherent since the collapse of the Soviet Union. 

They spend the next few hours hashing out the details. All of them aware of the level of secrecy that will be necessary; that will be absolutely imperative to keep them all alive. And then, with these three as witness, Bucky is sworn in to the police—a death knell as sure as any bullet if he’s ever found out.

 


	3. Calgary, 2005

 

Steve Rogers, captain in the Green Berets, is — if you ask anyone who knows him — as straight-laced as they come. He lives and breathes military code, they say. His salute is so crisp, his spine so ramrod straight that you’d believe he’d come out of the womb with the Pledge of Allegiance already formed on his lips. He follows the rules to the letter, they say, knows them all inside and out. Military conduct is so ingrained in him they call him Captain America, ask him if he sleeps wrapped in the American flag. People, superiors, acquaintances, even his own team, they all look at Steve and they think they know him, inside and out.

Those people would be wrong.

Steve Rogers might look like a man who knows how to swim, might look calm and confident out in the waves, but truthfully, he’s drowning, and he has been for years.

Steve Rogers owns an apartment in Brooklyn he never sees. He visits it about once a year, brushes the dust off the leaves of his plastic plants, checks that the water still runs, then throws the mail in the trash and leaves again. He locks the door behind him and thinks about renting it out or selling it—anything but this crushing emptiness. He hates the noises from the other apartments above and below him, the sound of people living all around him while he merely survives. 

He’s twenty-nine years old and he’s ready to be dead. 

Bisexual Steve has never let himself look at another man, has never allowed himself to look at that want inside himself too closely. He lives on army bases, across the States and overseas. He doesn’t know what to do when he’s left to return to Brooklyn alone, when he’s ordered by his superiors to, _Go home damnit, Rogers, it’s Christmas_. 

He’d enlisted the day after his mother had died, and had found out he’d inherited their apartment when he was still in basic training. He doesn’t know anything apart from the army life now, and although he’s close with his men, knows that they have his back in a firefight, or a knife fight, or — that one time — a bottle fight, he doesn’t have a life outside the barracks. Often even on leave, Steve will be found kicking around the base, running endless laps of the perimeter in an attempt to wear himself out into oblivion, trying to tire himself enough that he can just sleep. Sleep without the constant noise in his head: the sound of bombs exploding, the screams of all the people he hasn’t been able to save, and that one small voice that says, _Is this it?_ If there’s more to life than this, Steve doesn’t know where to find it; can’t bring himself to look. He’s too afraid, too trapped.   

He’s been stationed in several different countries since his enrollment over ten years ago now, but since summer he’s been back in North America running a joint op between the American and Canadian governments. 

Steve had been in the infantry for five years before he was approached by Colonel Phillips and recruited for the Special Forces. He’d agreed mostly for something for do, something more, something bigger. And it’s good—makes him feel like he is doing something more than the regular army had ever managed. It also means he has an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s distance, to never get too close, to never let any see who he really is. When you are in the Special Forces you are allowed to hide who you are and no one questions it. For that, Steve is thankful. He should be a major by now, with over ten years in the service and an exemplary record, but he’s asked to be passed up for promotion more than once. If he was a major then he’d no longer be able to lead his own squad in the field. He’d have to leave them behind to be swamped with paperwork and meetings. Steve Rogers isn’t someone who copes well with being stuck behind a desk. 

Their latest mission is a strange one. When Steve had been stationed out in Afghanistan he’d been involved in missions that helped disrupt the drug pipelines that were prolific in the area, helping to destroy that income source and making it harder for them to afford the weaponry they needed.

He had never expected to be running the same sort of mission in Canada. 

They’re stationed in a base outside of Calgary, in the foothills of the Rockies. The base there is a series of flat, low buildings, with sharply sloping roofs designed to slough off the snow without it building up too much. The summer had been bright and warm, but now in mid-September, the weather is already starting to change and Steve isn’t looking forward to winter. A childhood of being too skinny and sickly, of falling ill with pneumonia every winter, has left him deeply mistrustful of the cold. Even after he’d grown a foot and bulked out during puberty, his immune system finally catching up with his stubborn character, he still swore he felt the cold more than others did. He doesn’t mind the heat, not even the stifling rawness of the desert, but he really hates the cold.

The intel they have so far is limited at best. They’ve been able to trace the drugs back to Calgary — it seems to be the first town the drugs go through, but how they’re getting there, they have no idea. It’s like the drugs just appear and it doesn’t make any sense. What they do know is that they started appearing in November last year, and trailed off by spring, so the route seems to only be operational in the winter months. Steve wonders if they’re using the old dog-driving routes that used to be the staple of trade and communication in the winter months—and still are today when snowstorms and isolated farmsteads can mean people are often without power for days, if not weeks.  

The higher-ups are confident that the drugs are going to appear again this year. Steve doesn’t know how they can be sure of that — one year is hardly a pattern, but he supposes if they weren’t caught last year, what would stop them from trying again? Steve also knows there are whispers of a Russian source, someone who’s connected to the case. Either way, Steve and his men will be ready for them if or when they do appear. In the meantime, they’re here a few weeks early in order to start scoping out the locals, trying to figure out who the main players are.

It doesn’t hurt that his men are also getting some ‘adventure training’ in. It’s something the army sells as essential for team-building but is basically just an excuse for Steve and his men to behave like big kids at summer camp. They’ve been trekking, climbing, and white water rafting, and Morita swears he was talking to a guy the other evening who can hook them up with some skydiving. Steve’s skeptical about that one — the terrain around here is unpredictable, with tall evergreens giving way to glacial canyons and rough cliff-faces cut into the mountains. The Rockies are a fairly unforgiving place, especially after the end of summer. The sun is still bright and warm in the middle of the day, but once the sun sets below the horizon, the bite of frost hangs in the air and lingers after sunrise to chill their bones and their fingertips. 

Tonight, though—tonight they’re having fun. One of the parameters of their mission is to integrate themselves in the local social scene. Although they’re stationed in the army base, they’re not meant to be identifiable as military straight off the bat. They’ve been hooked up with a local construction site, actually working there a few days a week to maintain their cover. Other men have also been employed there—ex-military men who won’t blab about their extended absences. They’re meant to look like contractors to the locals, itinerant men following the work and not wanting people to ask too many questions.

The type isn’t unusual around here, and Steve and his men blend in quite well. The broad span of his shoulders fits a construction worker as much as it fits any military man and the rough calluses on Steve’s hands attest to a lifetime of work. That’s one of the reasons that the normal office-type spies weren’t chosen for this manner of undercover operation; why Steve and his men were called in instead. Men and women who’ve spent their days sitting behind desks are wholly unsuitable for blending into the Canadian wilderness. 

Steve looks at his hands as he slowly nurses a beer. Most of the team are out dancing, learning the steps of the line from several enthusiastic locals. Steve’s never been the most coordinated, but he’s more likely to dance in some random bar in Calgary than he is in most other places, and not just because it would help their mission. Half the people out there are stumbling over their own feet due to drunkenness, so Steve’s own two left feet would fit right in. He also appreciates that in line dancing there’s less of a focus on who one’s partner is, allowing Steve to dance next to a good-looking guy as easily as a woman without anyone batting an eyelid. 

Not that he’s about to do that, with the thought of even dancing next to a man in front of his team filling him with fear. Would they be able to tell?

And then, Steve sees him. And god, is the man beautiful.

He’s not a pretty boy. He’s got a few day’s stubble darkening his jaw and dark circles under his eyes to match, and Steve wonders what’s keeping him awake. The dark bags only serve to highlight the grey of his eyes, the colour of which Steve can just about make out from across the room. His lips are plump and pink, and Steve can see the shadow of a dimple on his chin. His body is lean and fit, his broad shoulders perfectly filling out the worn leather jacket he’s wearing. The whole look is finished off with soft-looking brown hair tied in a loose bun at the nape of his neck. Steve finds himself rising to his feet involuntarily, as if he was about to walk over and touch the man, see if his hair is as soft as it looks, but aborts the movement when he’s already stepped away from the bar.

His hair is the only soft-looking thing about him and Steve wonders if the man is dangerous— wonders if he’d receive a fist to the face for even looking at him the wrong way.

Steve turns back to the bar and slumps back down onto the stool he’d been sitting on before. He picks up the beer in front of him, but he’s been nursing it so long it’s lukewarm and he puts it back down in disgust, sighing deeply. 

What is he doing?

He orders another just for something to do. Something to keep his mind off the man on the dance floor and off the impulse to go join him. They need to be making friends with the locals, not enemies, and he doesn’t need to draw any untoward attention to himself. 

He keeps his back firmly to the dancers until some of his team come find him, all danced out and ready to leave. And if his eyes stray towards the dance floor on his way out, then nobody needs to know the reason but him. He doesn’t see the man, anyway. 

They go back to the same bar a few days later, trying to establish themselves as regulars and to gain the trust of the locals; insert themselves into the local rumour mills. 

Steve finds himself subconsciously scanning the crowds for that same face and lean body. He pretends that it's not a stab of disappointment when the other man is nowhere to be seen — that it's relief, because what would Steve have done anyway? Nothing, like always. 

He grabs himself a beer and props himself up against the bar again. The rest of the men head straight for the dance floor after a quick drink, knowing that it's the best place to find a willing partner for the evening, whether that's for dancing or for more horizontal activities. Steve's left alone with his beer and he tries not to look morose, tries not to _feel_ morose. He's satisfied with his life. He could go ask any one of the lovely ladies out there if they wanted to dance with him, and most of them would say yes. His men wouldn't look at him twice, except perhaps because he doesn’t usually pick anyone up. 

Everyone else is doing it; it would be easy. 

Steve doesn't move, though. Doesn't approach anyone, doesn't make eye contact or get too close to the other bodies at the bar.

And then. Then, the man walks in again. Ice-cold eyes, scruff on his jaw that Steve wants to run his tongue over. Steve wants—he wants and he _wants_ , and he never lets himself want anything. He barely even ever lets himself look, but god he wants this man. 

He grips his beer tightly in his hand, making a conscious effort not to move, and looks away from the man before he can catch him staring. The guy is with a small redhead today and she’s walking over to the bar, still laughing off a comment from the man. He wonders what they are to each other—their features are too different to be siblings. Are they friends? Lovers? Steve doesn’t so much as peek in her direction as she orders from the bar. Over the noise of the people, the music, and the rhythmic pounding of feet on the floor, he can’t hear a word she says. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the beer in front of him until she’s already moved away. 

Then he swings on his stool, lifting his beer up to his lips and taking a sip to mask the way his eyes are roving across the room. He locates them just as they’re toasting two shot glasses together, downing the clear liquid inside in one swift movement each, seemingly wholly unaffected by the alcohol. They follow this up with a pitcher of beer between them, and then they’re moving, heading out into the mass of line dancers, moving in unison to a song Steve already recognises from last time. It’s barely been ten minutes since they entered the bar, whereas Steve’s been here over an hour and hasn’t moved from his perch. Or finished his first drink.

Maybe he should be downing vodka as well. Will that give him the confidence he needs to get out there? To ask the man his name? 

He tries not to stare.

He fails miserably.

He stops trying to resist and gets to his feet. He can do this. He can join in with the dancing. All of his team are out there—just because he’s going to dance, it doesn’t have anything to do with this man. 

The music is _loud_ once he’s right in the thick of it. There are bodies pressed up on all sides, and he doesn’t know the moves. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because no one cares. No one’s looking at him; even his team barely notice that he’s joined them. Steve just starts to get the hang of it when the song changes abruptly, shifting into something even more upbeat. A low cheer goes up from the assorted crowd and dancers, and even more people cram onto the dance floor.

It proves to be a lively number. There’s lots of spinning around and swapping partners, arms linked more like a Scottish ceilidh than what Steve was expecting from line dancing, and he suspects that maybe it’s a speciality of this place because there’s no sense to it at all. He finds himself laughing from the energy of it all, and he’s just wiping his sweaty hair off his forehead when a strong hand grips his forearm. 

He’s already spinning through the dance moves before he looks up. It’s him, the guy. 

His eyes are even more striking up close. God, Steve would like to say that his head is spinning because of the dance, but it’s not that — it’s not _just_ that. Up close the guy is beautiful, that rough stubble framing a sharp jaw and those cold eyes staring straight at Steve like he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking.

A corner of the man’s lips lift in a smirk and Steve can’t help but smile back; his coming out more like a goofy labrador than the sardonic smile the other man is giving him.

The man’s grip is tight on Steve’s forearm, and he grips back just as hard as they throw each other round in circles in the steps of the dance. It’s exhilarating. Steve can feel his heart pumping blood through his body in real time, and he hasn’t felt this alive in months. Years.

He wants to dance with this man all night.

Their reel is over far too quickly, though, and their arms separate to join with the next person in line. Steve can’t help but look over his shoulder at the man and is surprised to see him staring back, watching even as he spins and spins with a small brunette. 

Steve stares, and he wants.

He goes home alone.

Steve hadn’t really been expecting to enjoy the line dancing. And he didn’t expect to see someone he liked, but he wants this man even more than he thought possible. The memory of the warmth of his skin, the strength of his fingers on his arm —  dancing with him had been a thrill that Steve hadn't been prepared for. He wants to go back to the bar as soon as possible in hopes that the man will be there. 

He falls asleep to thoughts of strong arms and blue eyes, sinking into them as he sinks into sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Three days later and he’s there again. This time the other man is there first — he catches Steve’s eye not ten seconds after Steve has entered the bar, a wry smile on his lips like he knows that Steve’s been thinking about him, hoping he’d be there.

Steve tries not to let the blush rise to his cheeks, but it's like trying to stop a fire with a water pistol. He looks away quickly, but not fast enough to miss the wink the other man gives him.

He heads straight to the bar instead and orders a beer without turning around. He's so focused on the scarred wooden countertop before him that he doesn't register the presence of someone beside him until they speak.

"A pitcher of beer." A pause. "And two shots of vodka, please."

The barman nods and Steve can't move because it's _him_. God, his voice is rich and deep, and it matches his hair perfectly, Steve thinks, even though that doesn't make any sense. His voice has the faintest hint of an accent that's not quite North American. Maybe he's from Montreal or somewhere?

Steve definitely isn't watching the other man's fingers where they strum a loose rhythm on the bar. His beer is waiting in front of him. He could grab it and move; he should do that, but he finds himself immobile, transfixed in place by the man's discordant tapping. 

The barman places the man's drinks down in front of him as he hands over a twenty, and Steve wills himself not to look. He's doing a great job of it, he swears, until the man's fingers reach over to one of the small shot glasses and slide it over to Steve.

"For you."

Steve forgets to breathe.

He stops staring at his own beer to turn towards the man.

"Hi, I'm Bucky," the man says with a smile, lifting his own shot glass up in a toast.

And Steve reacts on autopilot, lifting his own glass in return.

"Steve."

"Nice to meet you, Steve," the man — Bucky — says with a wide smile, and Steve can feel the corners of his own mouth turning up in response.

"Nice to meet you," Steve returns, clinking their glasses together lightly before knocking back the vodka in one swift motion. It burns at the back of his throat, and he just manages not to grimace. 

Bucky drinks down the vodka like it's water, and Steve watches the movement of the other man's throat as he swallows.

Bucky sees him watching and doesn't look away. "See you on the dance floor, maybe," he offers instead. Then he's gone before Steve can even think about formulating a response. He stares after the man, failing not to think about how good his ass looks in those jeans.

A quick glance around him shows that none of his men are anywhere near. He spies most of them on the dance floor, already sweaty from dancing. Bucky is there too, his hair flying free of its bun as he hops the steps of the line.

Something snaps inside Steve. He couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. He downs his beer, washing away the lingering taste of vodka in his mouth, and heads to the join the dancers. He purposefully positions himself away from Bucky, but he's intrinsically aware of the other man with every move he makes. Steve keeps him in the corner of his eye, turning his head just a fraction to make sure he catches the tiny furrow between Bucky's eyes when he concentrates on a particularly complicated sequence of steps.

Steve wants to smooth that furrow with his fingertips; chase his fingers with his lips. He wants to rub his hands across Bucky's stubble and taste those lips and see if any trace of the vodka remains.

Steve wants him so viscerally it hurts. He can feel it in the pounding of his heart, in the palm of his hand as he tries to reach out to touch. He placed himself away from Bucky so he can't touch him by accident, can't reach out and graze a hand across his arm before his brain catches up to his actions. 

He tries to lose himself in the music and in the raucous dancers around him; it works for a while until—

"Steve," Bucky's low voice is coming from right next to him and Steve jolts in surprise.

They dance the next song side-by-side, and there's no touching in this one—no swinging, spinning, or grabbing, but they're bumping up against each other nonetheless, forearms brushing forearms, elbows finding hips and stomachs. It feels like they're naughty school children trying not to get caught, although caught at what, Steve isn't sure yet.

When the song shifts into another, Bucky jerks his head in the direction of the bar, raising an eyebrow in question.

"So, Steve," Bucky starts when they're pressed up against each other at the bar. Steve could tell you exactly all the places they're touching right now, and he tries to memorise what it feels like to be so close to another man in public and not have anyone care. Bucky orders them both a drink—just beer this time, and Steve watches the way Bucky’s lips close about the rim of his glass. 

“You from around here?” Steve blurts out, cursing himself as the words leave his mouth. Way to be subtle, Rogers.

“Ah, not really. Working up on a ranch at the moment, though.” Bucky’s response seems normal, average, but Steve can’t help but think that he’s lying. “You?”

“Not originally. Here for the moment, working the construction project out by the old quarry.” The lie of Steve’s own comes easily and he thinks that it’s probably for the best. He doesn’t want — doesn’t _need_ — this man knowing too much about him. But maybe, just maybe, he might get something else from this encounter.

They talk over the music for some time, swapping anecdotes of the lives they’ve lived. Steve can tell that Bucky is holding something back, but so is Steve. Most of his stories are obfuscated to hide the fact that he’s been in the military for ten years and that most of his experience comes along with war and death. The only things that he’s good for are brute strength and military tactics; his hands were moulded for destruction a long time ago.

Bucky’s knees are pressed in between his own where they’ve turned to face each other, sat on their bar stools. They’re close enough that Steve can feel the heat of Bucky’s skin—can almost taste it on his tongue. He wants to taste. He’s so caught up in how close they are that he almost misses the moment that Bucky’s hand drops down to rest on Steve’s knee. 

His breath catches.

Anyone could see. They could see, and then they would know about Steve. 

Bucky’s hand has already started tracing the seam of Steve’s jeans, hand creeping higher, and Steve isn’t sure he wants to stop him, even out in the open as they are.

He aches so badly with wanting this man. A man he knows nothing about, but who already seems to have some sort of magic power over Steve. Steve has never been with another man, has never allowed himself to want that, but now it’s like the floodgates have opened. There’s another man’s hand caressing his leg, and Steve wants him so badly he can’t breathe with it.

“Want to get out of here?” Bucky has leaned up close to Steve’s ear, breath warm where it blows across Steve’s neck and he can’t think straight. He wants those lips to touch his neck, to kiss him just there, they’re so close…

“God, yes.” The words come out almost like a groan, and before Steve can process what he’s said, Bucky is pulling away. 

“Follow me.” Bucky is all business now, and although Steve’s used to being the one giving orders, he follows Bucky like a marionette on a string, tethered but not unwilling. 

They make it as far as the alleyway behind the bar. The night is cold, the smell of winter already in the air, but Steve doesn’t care. The heavy metal side door has barely clanged shut behind them, the echoes still reverberating off the brick, when Steve feels Bucky’s hands grab his hair, feels him pull Steve flush up against the wall and then—

They’re kissing. It’s sharp, and it’s desperate, and it’s warm and wet, and it’s a million different things and it’s so overwhelming that Steve is drowning in it. But if this is drowning, then Steve doesn’t care about learning how to swim. He reaches his own hands to run up the sides of Bucky’s body. The muscles there as firm as Steve had thought they would be. One hand reaches up to tangle in Bucky’s hair, reveling in its silky smoothness, and Steve loses himself in this kiss—in this moment.

He’s brought back to himself when Bucky pulls away and he’s about to ask what, why, don’t— when Bucky gives him a dirty smirk and drops to his knees right there on the filthy floor of the alleyway and starts opening the fly on Steve’s jeans. Steve is suddenly, blindingly, aware of how hard he is, how hard he’s been this whole time, and he can’t believe this is about to happen.

Bucky cocks one eyebrow at Steve—asking for permission, to which Steve nods so quickly he feels like his head is about to drop off—before swallowing him down and now — now — Steve must have died and gone to heaven.

He doesn’t do this — he’s _never_ done this. He doesn’t pick up random guys in bars and get blown in alleyways. God, what if someone sees?

But Bucky’s mouth is the greatest thing that Steve has ever felt. He reaches his fingers to trace along the stubble at his jaw, to feel the shape of his lips as they’re stretched obscenely about his cock, and it’s never felt like this before. He knows he’s not going to last, and sure enough, he can’t hold back.

“Bucky— I’m—” he tries to warn him, barely getting his name out before he’s coming straight down Bucky’s throat, and god he can feel him swallowing down his come like it’s another drink at the bar.

Steve feels more than sees Bucky rising to his feet, graceful even though his knees must be killing him. He leans in to kiss Steve, and Steve can taste himself on his lips, the dark musky salt of his own come. He reaches a hand down to Bucky’s jeans only to find them damp and sticky. 

He opens his eyes. “Wha—”

Bucky gives him a sheepish grin in return, and a shrug as if to say, ‘I couldn’t help it’. He’d come in his own jeans when blowing Steve, and the thought of it is nearly enough to make Steve hard again, cock twitching in a valiant effort to be interested again so soon.

“You were great, doll face. Catch you around.”

And before Steve has a chance to even blush at the nickname, Bucky is gone.

 

* * *

 

It's nearly a week before they head to the bar again. Steve and his men head out up into the eastern Rockies for a few days, following a tip that one of the old pony trekking routes is being used for ferrying the drugs. They find some evidence of old, abandoned campfires, but it could be local teenagers as much as it could be their guys. There's nothing else, and they lose the trail not far out from an old ranching farm.

Steve is dog-tired when they get back to the city, but the lack of leads out in the woods make it even more imperative that they keep building an information network with the locals. That's the only reason Steve wants to head into town, he tells himself, and for a moment he almost believes it.

Steve heads straight to the bar as usual when they get there, eyes scanning the already-substantial crowd. Nothing: he's not here. No sign of the redhead, either. He tries to ignore the disappointment he feels as it settles in his stomach like a bowl of cold stew. 

He takes his customary seat at the bar and doesn't look at the dance floor.

He'd tell you he isn't waiting. But he is. 

It feels like a weight lifting off his shoulders when a familiar dark head stops at the bar beside him. He's here. 

Steve had been worried that after what had transpired in the alley, the other man — Bucky, Steve had a name now — would avoid this place; would avoid Steve. But here he is. He risks a glance at Bucky, and when Bucky catches his eye, Steve can’t help the flush that races up his neck and floods his cheeks. God, what they’d done in the alleyway had been filthy, so unlike Steve, but he wants it again. He wants more—anything he can get and still more. 

When Bucky catches his eye, he knows they'll be leaving together.

 


	4. Calgary, December

 

With his American name and flawless accent, Bucky knows he’s fooling Steve Rogers about who he really is. It’s like a drug, like a window into what his life could be like if he was an American. Bucky swore he’d never try drugs, had always looked on addicts with disdain, but here he is with an addiction all of his own.

Bucky can’t get enough of Steve; he’s too far in. They’ve been seeing each other for nearly three months now, and he thinks that Steve might not be who he says he is, either. He seems to be part of a very close-knit group of men—as close as he and Natalya are, and they’re undercover police officers for god’s sake. Steve stands straight when he thinks Bucky isn’t looking, wakes at exactly 5:30 AM every single morning, no matter that the sun is hours from rising now in the middle of winter. Steve is not who he says he is, and Bucky is in far too deep.

It’s been good. They’ve made three runs so far, once a month bringing their product across over the ice using a team of sled dogs. Their path joins up with the old Iditarod sledding route, the only channel of goods and communication in the past and even now when the storms come in and the power is down. Bucky enjoys the exhilaration of the sled; there is nothing quite like being pulled along by a team of dogs with the world rushing past you in snow-covered silence. Enough noise comes from the dogs, though: their huffing and panting, the steady thrum of their bodies as they move. Sometimes Bucky wants nothing more than to be one of his own sled-dogs, with nothing to worry about apart from moving their cargo from A to B. 

Their cargo is what worries him. Their cargo is what’s garnering them international attention. The intelligence that Bucky’s party has through his real job, his undercover job, tells him that the Americans are on to them. They’re on to them and this is why they’d reached out to the Russian authorities in the first place. It had been sheer, dumb luck more than anything that they’d contacted someone who wasn’t in Markovich’s pocket, or someone else who’d value the information that the police were on to him. Bucky knows he’s been riding his luck hard these past few months—these past few years, even—and Steve Rogers is merely another item to stack on top of the teetering tower. 

Bucky needs to be free before it all comes tumbling down.

He supposes, though, that it doesn’t matter. He’s been convinced that he’s going to die a dirty death on the Russian streets ever since Artiom. Had been convinced for months afterwards that someone would get him from behind in prison, or would just walk straight up to him and let him know who they were; who they were doing it for. The feeling had only intensified when he’d made it back to the outside, and although it had tapered off, the feeling had never really gone away. It won’t be revenge for Artiom anymore, but Bucky’s always been expecting a bloody death.

At least if he freezes to death—drops through the ice where it’s too thin or just wanders off into a snow drift—it won’t be the death he’s been expecting all these years. Not the sharp sting of a shank from behind. Not Markovich finding him out as a snitch and stretching out his death to make the pain last an eternity. No, there could be worse things than falling through the ice. Last month the run had nearly gone sour. They’d gotten the product over to the coast without any issues. Everyone’s pockets were lined with Markovich’s money as far as he could reach, but that didn’t extend to American soil. For that, Bucky is immanently grateful, but it means more of it falls on his head. He has to be cunning, charming, and adaptable. He has to make each run work, even if the plan goes wrong. This whole operation hinges on Bucky, and he knows it couldn’t survive without him.

Steve, though, makes Bucky want to survive. Next week, he’s getting Becca out of Russia. She’s been working in Moscow for months now, and with Bucky now permanently based  east over the winter, her absence hasn’t been noticeable. She isn’t coming back this time. Neither is Bucky.

Bucky’s got Becca her American passport — they’re both eligible through their mother and having been born in the States, but Becca has never visited before—not while she’s been old enough to remember. But the final few pieces are falling into place: Becca has a job lined up, and even a room in a shared apartment. She’s flying out on Friday and it’s Sunday evening already, and Bucky can barely breathe with the feeling. He thinks it’s hope, but hope isn’t meant to feel like a cement block pressing down on your chest; isn’t meant to fill you with dread.

It doesn’t matter what happens to him once Becca’s out, and maybe that’s what he’s afraid of. He’s been so careful for so long, ever since Artiom. Never putting a foot wrong, always deferring to Markovich, but now he won’t have to. He doesn’t need the safety net of Markovich’s protection anymore, and that’s a dangerous thing. 

If he doesn’t need to preserve his own life, there are so many more risks that Bucky can take.

After next Friday, everything can come crashing down. Bucky knows that the tipping point is close.

 

* * *

 

Steve knows that they’re getting closer. Last month they’d received intel from one of the remote farms up by the Alaskan border. The old farmer who lived there told them about a group of people using the old trails—not anyone that he knew, and he knew _everyone_ in these parts.

It was barely more than hearsay, but in this wild, barren landscape, anything more substantial than a hunch is good enough for Steve. And it had been good. It was miles and miles away from where they’d been looking before, but there’d been fresh tracks in the snow when the locals were adamant no one had used those paths today—they were using newer ones further east, down towards the lake. 

It was the strongest thing they’d had resembling a lead since starting this mission, and Steve had jumped on it without a moment’s hesitation.

Half of his team immediately rigged up their own dogs to follow the trail onward — smaller sleds to make them more manageable, and keeping several dogs who weren’t pulling at any given time to keep them fresh. The other half, Steve included, geared up to head back up the tracks to see where they led. It had been a hard hike, with all the dogs being used to track down their prey, Steve and his team had gone on foot, hiking through three feet of freshly powdered snow. It made a nice change from the deserts of Steve’s earlier military career, but he still wasn’t sure which one he hated more. At least the desert was predictable in its own way. The snow had been falling steadily all day and by 3 PM, combined with the mid-winter darkness, carrying on had been futile. The walk back to their rendezvous point at the farm had been a dejected trudge.

Sadly, the other team had been no more successful. The heavily falling snow had succeeded in covering the tracks the team thought they were following. A fork in the route had led to either a wrong turn or an admission that there had never been anything to follow in the first place. Steve was hopeful for the latter, but had never been one to get his hopes up.

Dugan had sworn he’d seen the back-end of another sled—had seen _something_ through the swirling snow that could only be the drug runners they were looking for. But they’d found no other trace of them; not even when they’d gone back out at first light the next morning. 

That was nearly four weeks ago now and, if their intel is right, the next run should be coming within the next few days. They don’t seem to make the run more than once a month, and Steve wonders where the hold-up is in the pipeline. Does it have to be brought in bit-by-bit, under the nose of someone who shouldn’t be turning a blind eye? Or is it merely a production issue? Is their manufacture process slowing them down? Steve wishes he had all the answers to these questions. He knows that more intel can only help them.

They have some contact with Russian police—he knows that much now, but he doesn’t know anything else. Not a name, or a face, not even a gender. He knows it’s part of the confidentiality, that the rot is so deep in Russia that it’s hard to drive out. But he feels like he’s staggering around in the dark—and quite literally if that last attempt at tracking is anything to go by. 

He’s been … exercising out his frustrations with Bucky. His men have noticed that he disappears sometimes, and he’s let them think it’s a woman. Jim gives him this look, though, when the other men are ribbing him, like he knows that it’s something else. Maybe he’s just reading Steve’s mind, or his heart, and he knows that it’s more than just a crush. 

He’s tried not to feel anything for Bucky—knows that the other man is hiding something, that he’s skittish and secretive. But on the surface, it’s so fucking good. They fit together in a way that Steve has never experienced before. He’d always thought that maybe he just didn’t like sex. He’d never enjoyed it much; just using his own hand had been able to satisfy him. With Bucky though, every inch of his skin seems to come alive, and it’s like electricity humming through his veins when Bucky’s touching him. It can be the most innocent or fleeting of touches — a hand on his knee, a whisper of warm air on his neck—and Steve is so far gone he can’t think straight.

He’s seeing Bucky that evening, and then he needs to go dark for the rest of the week. They’re expecting the next run to come through the following weekend and Steve needs to be prepared. He’s certain they were so close last time, he could almost smell it. This time, he’s not going to let them get away.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s glad to see Steve this evening. He’s been trying not to think of the other man too much—it feels like the sword of Damocles is hanging over their every moment together. Steve has no idea who he is.  

He needs to head back over the ice tomorrow to pick up their latest shipment. “Shipment.”He thinks that’s funny when they _could_ be shipping it, but they’re going directly on foot instead. Funny, how they still use that word.

He doesn’t need to think about this now. Doesn’t need to think about anything but the taste of Steve in his mouth, the feeling of those taut muscles under his fingertips.

He’s maybe a little rough when he throws Steve down onto the bed, foot coming up to swipe under Steve’s feet and trip him — he’s far heavy for Bucky to lift without properly bracing himself, and that would ruin the atmosphere. Steve seems to like Bucky taking charge though, and he returns Bucky’s kisses with equal fervour, hands and lips claiming what they can. 

It’s hard and fast by the time Bucky gets inside of Steve, and it’s over more quickly than he’d like, doing little to take the edge off his nerves. This could be the last time that he sees Steve and he wants to say something, wants to tell this man—this beautiful, strong man—that he’s falling for him. Bucky wants to tell him that he loves the moments they’ve managed to steal together, the nights where they stay up late talking about the world and their place in it.

He’s told Steve about his hopes and dreams: that he went to night school to make his life better, to get out of manual labour. That small lie falls easily from his lips because it’s true.  Hauling ass across the ice with a sled-load of drugs...if that’s not manual labour, Bucky doesn’t know what it is. And god, he wants out so badly. He lets that yearning, that hope, show when he’s with Steve.

Steve, in turn, tells Bucky about his youth: about a mother who died young and how lost Steve has felt ever since; how he’s always hiding. Bucky thinks that Steve’s hiding something now, but they’re strangers really, aren’t they? And he’s keeping secrets of his own.

He’s more honest with Steve than he’s ever been with anyone, though, fears and dreams laid bare on his skin like the tattoos that tell the story of who he is.

There’s still time to change that story. He knows the police are close. He knows that he needs to get his men caught this time, before it’s too late. He only hopes he can make that happen without getting killed in the process—by his own men or by the authorities.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s lips are on his the moment he opens the door to find Steve standing on the other side. Steve is thankful that Bucky has his own place; there’s no way he could bring him back to his. 

That first time in the alleyway had supplied Steve’s fantasies for days afterwards, until the real thing had been under his hands again. When Steve had finally gotten Bucky naked, here in Bucky’s apartment, Steve had thought his heart would beat right out of his chest. The sight of Bucky’s body — all those tattoos — had taken his breath away. He’d had no idea Bucky had been hiding all this under his clothes. And god, the body itself, as toned as Steve had thought from brushing up against him on that dance floor.

Steve had tried to ask Bucky about the tattoos, on the first night and afterwards. Steve had been worried about being with a man: worried that he wouldn’t know what to do, that his inexperience would give him away as a fraud. How do you admit to never having touched a man before at his age? It had been easy though, with Bucky laid out in front of him. He’d reached out to touch the rose on his ribs before he’d even thought about the movement. Bucky’s breath hitched as he’d traced the lines of the petals. It had looked crude, not professionally done, and Steve had wondered if that had another meaning for Bucky. Maybe a friend had done it.

He’d shut down when Steve had tried to ask him, and Steve knew better than to ask him about the random scars that covered his body as well.

The skulls emblazoned across Bucky’s chest unsettled Steve. They’re beautifully done—artwork engraved across Bucky’s chest—but he wondered what drives a man to get skulls tattooed on him and what they mean. Even the seemingly innocuous Statue of Liberty etched on Bucky’s arm had garnered a less-than-enthusiastic response when Steve had joked about it.

_“Nice Lady Liberty. At least I don’t have to worry about you being a Canadian.”_

_They’d been lying together, sweat still cooling on their skin, legs entwined, and Steve’s face was mushed up against Bucky’s right arm. Steve felt the moment that Bucky tensed under him at the words._

_Neither of them breathed for a second, before Bucky visibly relaxed in his arms again._

_“Thanks,” he replied eventually, his voice gruff and curt, and Steve didn’t dare ask him anything else._

The tattoos, though—the tattoos were beautiful and so was Bucky. And it only added to Steve’s feeling that this was something illicit, something secret and furtive. He knows Bucky has secrets, and it’s getting harder to ignore them; harder to ignore his own.

All he has to do is catch the drug runners next weekend. Then, maybe he can be honest.

There’s something frantic about them both this evening, like Bucky’s feeding off Steve’s anxiety about what’s coming, but neither of them acknowledges it.—neither of them say a word. 

Steve leaves Bucky’s place in the morning feeling like it’s the last time he’ll see him. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen over the next few days. He hopes to god they can catch the drug runners, that he can get out of this place. But he can’t help thinking about staying here and building a life with Bucky. He really could work in construction; it’s not like he isn’t strong enough for it. Or maybe Bucky and he could start their own ranch—use Bucky’s experience to get them started while Steve learns the ropes for himself.

It’s a childish daydream, but all Steve’s ever thought about before is the military. He’s never let himself dream beyond that, had always thought that maybe he’d die in service to his country—and that would be okay. He’d be okay with that. 

Bucky makes him want more. Steve trusts him: he trusts him with his sexuality; with his heart, although they haven’t said anything like that to each other. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to hope for anymore. 

Steve’s kept busy during the week—too busy to worry about his love life. They receive intel on Tuesday that the drug runners will be making a trip this week as they’d hoped, and that they’re being set up so Steve and his men can apprehend them. They’ll be working with the Canadian team on this one, all of them out in the field together, as well as another American unit. Steve doesn’t like the thought of working with so many people he doesn’t know—that’s how things get out of hand—but he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. And he wants to catch these guys so badly, he’ll do whatever he has to.

It’s been an exhausting game of cat and mouse. Every piece of intel has been hard won, even with their supposed contact on the inside. There have been long days and nights out in the cold and snow, following leads that don’t exist, tracks that end up belonging to no one else but stray dogs.

On Thursday — two days before the next run is due — they receive some intel that shocks the whole team. So far they’ve been looking at airstrips and ports, the border between Canada and the US — any way that someone could be smuggling drugs into the country. They’d never even considered the ice.

It’s suicide, surely? It can’t be true. Steve’s mind boggles at the thought — it’s got to be eighty miles at least. Eighty miles of the harshest conditions imaginable, across a surface that doesn’t even exist for most of the year. But it _must_ be possible because they’ve already done it. Steve can’t imagine how desperate they must be to try this route. He wonders if it’s just the drug runners using the route, or if anyone else would be mad enough to try it.

Steve’s men and the other teams start a mad scramble to equip themselves for the ice. They’re going to have to go out there, too; it’s their best chance of catching them before they hit solid land and have a hundred different routes to choose from.

Steve doesn’t sleep on Friday night. They’ve headed up to Wales, in Alaska — a journey that took them the whole day. If the intel had come even a few hours later, they wouldn’t have made it here in time. Steve spends the night in the unfamiliar camp tossing and turning. All these months they’ve been concentrating on the mountain route through the Rockies, on the exit point at Calgary, when the drugs were meeting the expressway and heading out across Canada and down towards the States. But Calgary had been the final step in the journey, not the start. They’ve been looking in the wrong place the whole time, and the only thing that’s helped them now is their inside source. Steve feels useless; he should have been able to figure this out. 

He rises before dawn, eyes feeling scraped raw, mind stuffed full of cotton wool. He’s gotten by on less sleep before, though, and he knows some coffee will get him up and running despite the lack of rest.

The camp is a flurry of activity. They’re taking two teams of dogs — one for the American team and one for the Canadians — with Steve’s men split between the two, offering point command. Steve’s glad for that, at least. He isn’t sure that he’d be able to relinquish control to anyone today.

He doesn’t miss the assault rifles the American team loads into their sled, and he chooses to go with them, trusting Dugan to keep the Canadians in line. Their job is to seize and capture, not to execute, and it settles uneasily in Steve’s stomach to see those rifles. He knows they need them for protection as well, but he doesn’t trust the other Americans in the slightest.

Steve’s unease only grows once they head out onto the ice. It started snowing about 7 AM, and by ten, visibility is next to nothing. He can barely see the lead dogs, let alone anyone else out here. They’re not going to catch them in this.

They spend what could be hours, or could be minutes, fanning out across the ice. Steve loses all sense of time in the white fog that encompasses them, and he tries not to think too much about Bucky’s warm skin. This isn’t the time or place. Steve hopes he’s around this evening, though, when all this is over. 

Steve’s all but ready to give up, to count their losses, regroup on land, and hope to catch them before they reach Calgary when—

“Look! There!”

It’s the lieutenant in charge of the American team who raises the shout: a man named Rumlow who Steve actively despises despite their limited interaction. Steve Rogers is normally a very forgiving man.

“I see something!”

* * *

 

 

Bucky wants to cancel the run and do it another day. The weather forecast is beyond shit: they’re not going to be able to see three feet in front of their faces. But it has to be today. That’s the information that Bucky has leaked to the Americans and if they don’t run it today, there’s an even stronger chance that Bucky will get found out. He’s already played all his cards—now, he just has to see if he has the winning hand. 

It takes a full day to cross the ice, so he’s not expecting to encounter the authorities until night has fallen. He doesn’t know anybody else on Markovich’s team today, which sets him on edge even more. What does Markovich know? Why hasn’t he put him with anyone he knows?

He tries not to let his nervousness show; tries to just focus on keeping the dogs moving smoothly, making sure they stop for food and water. He thinks about Steve. 

It’s slow going; slower than usual, Bucky is certain. And then he hears something. A shout? A bark? The falling snow muffles the sound, but someone’s out there.

 

* * *

“It’s them! There they are!”

The crack of the rifle makes Steve’s blood run cold.

 

* * *

 

Bucky starts as the man next to him — Ivanov? — is thrown from the sled. The sharp sound of a rifle follows, emerging from the snow like Bucky’s worst nightmare.

The Americans are here, and they haven’t come unprepared.

“Shit shit shit.”

Bucky pulls the dogs to a stop, but they’re already going wild, barking at the men now approaching them in front. Bucky can just about make out their figures through the snowstorm, and he counts four— no five?— five men approaching him, three with rifles raised, and all Bucky has is a shit-ton of drugs, and a sister that’s safe far away from this mess. Far away from Markovich and Bucky both.

He leaps off the sled and charges towards the nearest man, keeping low in the hope of avoiding his rifle. If he gets close enough, the other men won’t fire for fear of hitting their own. Or at least that’s what Bucky hopes.

The man goes down easily, losing his footing on the ice as Bucky tackles him around the knees. Bucky falls on top of him, the collision pushing the air out of his lungs. 

 

* * *

 

One of the Russians is running towards them, emerging from the snow like some sort of wild beast. He tackles the man next to Steve in the blink of an eye, and they go down hard. Steve swears he hears the ice crack under the impact but there isn’t time to think about that now.

He’s about to wrestle the man off when his fur hood falls back as he’s grappling with Stokes. And even though he’s still wearing a woolly hat underneath, even though his mouth is covered, Steve _recognises_ him. 

It’s Bucky.

Steve doesn’t move. He’s frozen, immobile. 

_Bucky._

Even as his mind refuses to comprehend it, it makes so much sense. The secrets, the odd hours and days that Bucky seemed to keep. It had suited Steve because it had been so like his own hours but—

He comes to his senses to realise that his men have surrounded the Russians. They’ve got them covered, and the only two remaining are Bucky and Stokes still wrestling on the ground.

Steve takes a step towards him, but he doesn’t even know who he’s reaching out for, Stokes or Bucky—

— _crack_

“Bucky—” Steve has time to call out before the ice gives way below his feet; before he’s falling.

 

* * *

 

Bucky freezes at the sound of his name — his _American_ name — and he looks up to see Steve standing right in front of him, arm outstretched.

_Steve._

_Shit._

Steve is with the American authorities. God, Bucky had been so stupid. And now Steve is going to think that Bucky’s one of them— that he’s _really_ one of them. And he knows they’re not carrying those rifles just for sport.

Markovich isn’t going to be the end of him, Steve will be.

Before he can think any further, the ice under Steve gives way, sending him plummeting into the icy water below.

Bucky throws off his opponent with a howl of rage that would rival any bear and staggers over to the hole. He can _see_ Steve below the surface, eyes wide open in shock but he’s not moving, not swimming, and Bucky doesn’t even think.

He sheds his bulky coat and jumps in after him.

 

* * *

 

Steve can’t, he can’t— it’s cold, too cold, and there’s no air and he can’t breathe. There’s no air, just ice and water and he’s going to drown—

Strong arms grasp him from behind, and then he’s breaking the surface, lungs heaving as the icy air rushes back into his lungs. He can still barely catch his breath, the shock of the cold robbing all sense from him.

Someone rushes over with a blanket, but then those arms — those strong arms — are being wrenched away from him, and as he loses consciousness the last thing he hears is Bucky’s anguished cry...

 

* * *

 

_24 hours later_

 

Bucky can’t quite believe it. He’s not dead. Markovich’s men are all in police custody, apart from Ivanov, who’d been killed by that first rifle shot. No one else had been killed though, barely even injured, apart from—

Steve.

All along, his salvation was Steve. Steve, who he found comfort in even when he knew he didn’t deserve it. Steve, who was a warm place to hide from all the other shit in Bucky’s life. Steve.

Bucky’s been in interrogation with Steve’s superiors for the better part of the last twenty-four hours and hasn’t managed to lay eyes on the man for himself yet. He knows that Steve’s being kept in what passes for a hospital round here — they’re back in Wales now — but he hasn’t managed to gain access.

He’s free to go, though — as a member of the Russian police force, he’s not being held accountable for his actions under cover. Steve doesn’t know that—doesn’t know any of that— only knows that Bucky had been on the other side of the ice yesterday and had been his target all along.

He’s wondering how the hell he’s going to sneak in to see Steve when one of his men comes up to him.

“It’s Bucky, right?” The guy’s forthrightness surprises Bucky, and he’s left stammering.

“Err—yeah.”

“Come with me. Steve’s this way.”

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief he isn’t aware he’d been holding and doesn’t hesitate. He’s in America now. Russia’s in the past; he can’t go back there. And Steve... Steve very well might be his future. 

 

* * *

 

Steve’s dozing lightly when there’s a knock at the door. He hopes it’s Bucky and not his team, and he wonders if that makes his ungrateful. They’ve all been very good-natured about Steve having been sleeping with one of the drug runners, and have told him that Bucky had been working undercover the whole time—that’d he’d been their source. But still, Steve feels chagrined, stupid, like he should have seen what was right in front of him.

More than that, though, Steve wants to see Bucky. He’d nearly died out there and all he could think about was, ‘Is this it? Is this what his life amounted to? An icy death in the middle of nowhere, no one to mourn or grieve him beyond his unit?

When he woke up gasping for breath in the middle of the night, memories of the ice lodged inside his heart, it had been Bucky that he’d thought of then, too. He’d thought of the memory of Bucky’s skin, the warmth of his hands roaming across Steve’s body, the heated kisses they’d shared. He’d thought of the bliss of waking up next to Bucky, all sleep-soft and warm under the blankets together. He wants it so badly he can feel it hurting in the palm of his hands, the ache so deep it’s permeated every inch of his body.

He aches for Bucky, and finally, finally, he lets himself hope.

“Come in.”

 

* * *

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> If you enjoyed our fic, please leave kudos (they are life) or a comment, and come visit us on tumblr - we are [Maggie](http://iameverywhere.tumblr.com/) and [Nejinee](http://nejineeee.tumblr.com/).


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